After-Action Report
by Eponymous Rose
Summary: York visits Carolina in the infirmary after a failed mission. Things get a little weird.


There's blood on his armor.

York is limping to Recovery, one arm clenched to guard his bruised ribs, his head pounding with the start of a fairly promising concussion. The spray of blood painting his chestplate doesn't belong to him. He keeps his eyes down, breathing harshly through his teeth, avoiding eye contact with the medics who've been trying to haul him off to the infirmary for the better part of an hour.

Someone bumps into him, and he hisses, hunching his shoulders. South starts to snarl something, then does a double-take. "Whoa. You look like shit."

"You should see the other guy," York says, vaguely. "Hey, she out of surgery?"

North, coming up behind his sister, snorts. "Boy, is she ever."

South rounds on him. "Oh, so now it's funny? Not when I was trying to film it for blackmail—er. Posterity?"

"The difference," North says primly, "lies in how much pain she'll inflict on you a week from now."

"Oh, you are so full of shit."

York looks back and forth between them. He feels like his brain is sloshing in his skull. "Uh," he says. "What's happening right now?"

South's expression shifts to positively gleeful. "Holy shit, I forgot you've never seen her after surgery before."

"South..." North says, warningly.

"You laughed your fucking ass off the first time, don't even start with me." South waves an arm back in the direction of Recovery One. "Our illustrious first-in-command, Boss Lady? Is really, really sensitive to painkillers."

York blinks. "Sensitive how?"

South bares her teeth, slaps him on the shoulder with enough force that he stumbles. "You'll see."

North immediately reaches out to steady him. "York, you really gotta let them check you out. You're white as a sheet."

"Nah," York says, and regrets having left his helmet back on the Pelican. Easier to hide deathly pallor behind a helmet. "I'm good. Just want to make sure she's okay."

South rolls her eyes. "I'll bet."

But North's just staring at York, his head cocked to one side, and his expression is creeping toward concerned-team-dad mode, which is always a thrill. York makes himself relax, drops his hands to his sides. "Seriously, I'll just be five minutes, man. She freaked me out a bit back there, okay?"

North's gaze flickers to the gore on York's chest, then back up to his face, and he nods slowly. "Yeah," he says. "I get that. But if you're not in one of those hospital beds five minutes from now, I'm—"

"—telling Daddy," South sing-songs.

North hides his smile behind the palm of his hand. "Oh god never call him that again," he mutters, all in one breath.

Smiling winningly, York dodges past them through the doors before North can protest.

Carolina's awake; she looks up as he steps through the doors. She's propped up by a couple pillows, looking small and pale against the hospital sheets and the bandages, but she manages a faint smile, and York makes a grab at the wall just to, y'know. Just to steady himself.

"York," she says. "Glad you're okay."

'Glad' doesn't begin to cover it. York's been remembering, for the past hour, the way she'd stiffened when the first sniper round connected, the way she'd crumpled after the second. Two short, sharp intakes of breath over the radio. His hands pressed against the wounds in her throat and chest, feeling the too-fast thrum of her heartbeat. She'd been unconscious before she hit the ground. He'd never seen her that still.

"Yeah," he says, a little shakily, and takes a step toward her. "Yeah, you too."

Her smile flickers and fades. "York," she says, very seriously, "I have a question to ask you."

"Uh," says York, and drags a chair to her bedside to collapse into it. "Sure, go ahead."

She pauses, as though for dramatic effect. "Have you ever seriously considered ceilings?"

York blinks. "Ceilings," he says.

She nods, sagely. "Ceilings. Why? Why ceilings? What are they hiding?"

"Uh." York turns, but North and South aren't in the observation room anymore. No help there. "The sky, I guess?"

"The sky!" She clenches a fist, pounds it into her open palm. "That's brilliant! That makes sense. I'd always wondered." Her voice drops to a whisper. "I don't mean to alarm you, but there's a ceiling in this very room."

Oh. _Oh_. Sensitive to painkillers. Right.

York pats her shoulder reassuringly. "The ceilings are fine, Carolina. They're on our side."

"I know that," Carolina says, irritably. "What's wrong with you, York? You're not making sense."

"Oh," he says, fighting down a grin. "I'm the one not making sense. Right."

She squints at him. "Speaking of things that are... that are also things that don't make sense. Your hair."

"My—"

"Your hair is stupid."

"Oh, wow. You're mean when you're high." York runs a hand back through his hair, putting it on end. "Gimme a break, I work hard on it."

Her voice trails off into a mumble, but he's pretty sure she's giggling. And, in a particularly surreal moment, he can swear she's whispering, "_Hard on!_"

"Okay," York says, "maybe we'd... maybe we'd better let you rest."

He can see her visibly pulling herself back on track. "Hey, you don't look so good."

"Yes, the hair, we've established that."

"I mean maybe you should get in bed."

York freezes. He doesn't blush, man, he really doesn't. He just sort of... goes a little red. "Yeah um," he says. His voice is totally at its normal register and not two octaves too high. "I'm gonna go do that thing. In a place."

She laughs. She _snorts_. He's never heard her laugh like that, delighted and embarrassed and maybe a little relieved. "Sorry," she says. "I just realized South was in here being all caring and worried because she was probably filming me stoned off my mind for blackmail purposes."

"That's South's way of saying she cares," York says. "North made her stop, by the way."

"Oh, good. Still might make her run laps until she pukes, though. It's the principle of the thing." Carolina squints again. He wonders if her vision's blurry or if she's just doing it for effect. "You're not filming me, are you?"

York holds up his hands. "Wouldn't dream of it. Not a big fan of running laps. Or puking."

"In these troubled times," Carolina says, dramatically, "who is?"

York applauds this speech, and Carolina sketches a half-bow, then slumps back against the pillows, breathing hard. "Hey," he says. "You get some rest. We'll talk when you're more awake."

"Wait, no, hang on," she says, shifting against the pillows, trying to straighten up. "What happened? I remember stepping off the Pelican next to you, then just... nothing."

York keeps his voice low, even. "You were shot twice by a sniper. I guess you were standing in front of me, so you were the immediate target. One shot caught the side of your throat, another got you in the chest. You went down, I dragged you back into the Pelican, we got the fuck out of Dodge. We had bad intel. They were waiting for us with jammers for our sensors. Real shitshow all around."

She's quiet for a moment, digesting this, then says, "I totally could've taken them."

"Obviously."

"Remember the time at..." She blinks, slowly. "The time at the place? With the people? I fought them off singlehandedly. All fifteen of them."

"I do indeed remember the time at the place with the people. There were at least thirty. You were a little scary."

She stares at him, clicking her tongue against her teeth. "Was I just asking you about ceilings?"

"You're really, really stoned right now," York says, apologetically.

"Right. That." She stares at the wall over his shoulder for long enough that he's about to get up and leave, and then her eyes focus back on his and she grabs his hand. "I'm glad you're okay, York."

He squeezes her hand. It's a good fit. "Get some sleep. We'll talk tomorrow."

She smiles, then struggles visibly to force it into a stern frown. "Get to the infirmary, York, let them take a look at you. That's an order."

He releases her hand to snap off a salute. "Yes, ma'am." He pauses, then adds, "I'm serious, you know. South cares. North cares. We all care."

She sighs. Her eyes are flickering shut. "I know," she says, then mumbles, "My team," and, after a moment, starts to snore.

"Man," York says, softly. "You really know how to ruin a moment." He leans back in his chair, cataloguing his various aches and pains, but he'll wait for the medics to track him down and drag him away, because for now, he's smiling. He can't stop smiling.


End file.
